Next she slipped out of the fancy leather jacket and let it fall next to the hat. Underneath was the black silk blouse. It would have to stay, as would the boots and cheap jewelry. But there was one last thing she needed to get rid of. Reaching up, she tugged at the wig and lifted it off her head to reveal her own short, dark brown hair.
A stunned silence fell over the audience. The only sound in the gym was the faint clatter of the drummer dropping a stick.
Then, from the front of the audience, came the sound of one pair of hands clapping. Megan didn’t have to look down to know that it was Conner, supporting her. In the next instant, more hands joined in, then more, until the applause rose to the gym’s rafters. Tears welled in Megan’s eyes as she motioned for silence.
“Thank you for that,” she said in her natural voice. Then, perching on the stool, she picked up her guitar and strummed a few chords. “This song is dedicated to a certain man. When he hears it, he’ll know who he is.”
Laughter, light and knowing, rippled through the audience. In a place like Branding Iron, juicy tidbits traveled fast. If she and Conner had been seen together even once or twice, the whole town would know by now.
Strumming a few more chords, she began to sing—in a soft, caressing voice that was more her own than Lacy’s:
“My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of firelight. . .
And the sound of sleigh bells . . . and the fall of snow.
My dream of Christmas . . . is the warmth of laughter . . .
And the joy of children with their eyes aglow.”
As she sang, she could feel Conner’s gaze on her. He had to know the next words were for him, had to know, as everyone listening would know, that she loved him and wanted to be with him forever.
“My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of mornings . . .
With the golden sunlight . . . on your sleeping face.
My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of loving . . .
Making tender memories . . . nothing can replace.
My dream of Christmas . . . is you beside me . . .
As the fading sunset . . . paints the sky with flame . . .
My dream is . . .”
Megan’s voice wavered and broke. She lowered her gaze, fighting tears as she put down her guitar. There was more to the song, but she knew she couldn’t go on. A hush had fallen over her audience.
Was she finished? Should they applaud?
“Megan, look at me.” Conner was standing below her, close to the stage. His arms open, as if waiting to catch her. “It’s all right. It’s perfect. Come to me.”
She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What did he mean? Was he asking her to jump?
He smiled. “I love you, Megan. You, yourself, and no one else. Now do what you’ve been afraid to do. Take a chance on forever. That’s how long I’ll be here. Trust me.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered. Summoning her courage, she flung herself off the stage and into his arms.
His kiss was tender and passionate—a promise made before a roomful of people; it was a very public declaration that she was his woman, and he wanted the world to know it.
As the audience broke into thunderous applause, Conner lowered Megan’s feet gently to the floor. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
* * *
In years to come, when the people of Branding Iron talked about this night, they would agree that, of all the Cowboy Christmas Balls, this one had been the most memorable.
Epilogue
Six months later . . .